


leave before the kissing starts

by iwasfollowingyou



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Flirting, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Years, Pining, Roman Roy is dumb (as usual), Smoking, but we shall see, there will probably be a sequel to this eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwasfollowingyou/pseuds/iwasfollowingyou
Summary: It’s already the New Year in Australia, in China and in Ghana and in Germany and in England. Roman would have paid good money to be anywhere but New York. He would have gritted his teeth and endured a New Year’s party at his mother’s house, would have tolerated the awful small talk and cheek pinching and questions about what he’s been up to, if it had meant reaching the New Year five hours early and already being passed out in a puddle of champagne.There’s no puddle to pass out in yet, but he’s steadily working his way there.
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	leave before the kissing starts

**Author's Note:**

> i had a tough time deciding on a title for this one but ended up going with a line from 11:59 (it's january) by scrawl:
> 
> _First day Champagne  
>  Old acquaintances are far apart  
> Tonight Auld Lang Syne means  
> Leave before the kissing starts_

Roman is good at being noticed, but he’s just as skilled at disappearing when he wants to. No one has spoken to him since he walked into the party; they all pass right by him, eyes sliding over him as if he’s just another decoration.

If anyone noticed him, he thinks, they would realize just how badly he wants to be literally anywhere but here, but it was unacceptable this year, Marcia had told them, for Logan’s children to not be with their father on New Year’s. A show of family unity, of togetherness over the holidays, of support for Logan’s return to the company. That’s why, Roman knows, the party is being held on the top floor of the Waystar building, rather than in the house. They wouldn’t want their guests seeing the nurses, the extra staff; they wouldn’t want to risk people venturing into the wrong room while searching for a toilet and stumbling upon the medical equipment and stacks of pill bottles. 

It’s already the New Year in Australia, in China and in Ghana and in Germany and in England. Roman would have paid good money to be anywhere but New York. He would have gritted his teeth and endured a New Year’s party at his mother’s house, would have tolerated the awful small talk and cheek pinching and questions about what he’s been up to, if it had meant reaching the New Year five hours early and already being passed out in a puddle of champagne.

There’s no puddle to pass out in yet, but he’s steadily working his way there. 

Shiv and Tom are on separate sides of the room; Kendall is weaving his way back and forth, never stopping in one place for too long. Roman can see Greg against the other wall, standing out awkwardly from the crowd like a giraffe in a herd of zebras. He hasn’t seen Logan yet; he has no desire to. He won’t be surprised the photographer prowling around the edges of the party tries to force them together for a family photo. 

“Need a refill?” a voice asks. Roman is more taken aback than he probably should be to see Stewy standing in front of him, a champagne glass in each hand. He quickly recomposes himself and reaches out. Stewy hands him the full glass, takes the empty one from him, and smoothly passes it off to a passing waiter. 

Roman takes a sip, silently grateful but refusing to muster a _Thanks._

“Happy New Year,” Stewy says casually.

“It’s not midnight yet,” Roman mutters into his drink.

“Happy New Year’s Eve, then,” Stewy concedes. He glances at Roman. Roman looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Enjoying the party?”

Roman snorts. “Do I fucking look like I am?”

“Not really.” Stewy takes a sip of his own drink. “That’s why I’m here.”

Roman raises an eyebrow. “To make my night significantly worse?” 

“Ouch.” Stewy places a hand over his heart. Roman rolls his eyes.

They stand in silence for a few minutes, both observing the party, like biologists studying a group of chimpanzees. Roman expects someone to start throwing their own shit soon enough.

When Stewy finally seems to realize that he’s not going to get any conversation out of Roman, he mutters something about refilling his glass and disappears, melting back into the crowd as if he was never there in the first place. Roman glances at the spot where he was just standing, then downs his own beverage and winds his way through crowds of people, searching for a bottle to drown himself in.

* * *

The wind is biting cold. Roman hunches his shoulders, wishes he had put on his jacket before coming outside, recognizes that retreating back into the stairwell is a sign of weakness, an admission of defeat. He takes a sip of his champagne. It’s cold going down his throat. The bottle in his other hand is icy; he sets it down on the railing and considers what would happen if it were to fall. 

They’re not near Times Square, but he can hear the faint noise of the crowd anyway. Why anyone would want to spend New Year’s in New York Roman will never understand. He doesn’t see the appeal of standing in a sea of people, bodies pressed much too close together for hours on end, wearing those stupid corny glasses, screaming out a countdown into the freezing air. It’s an activity for people from a different universe. The Roys wouldn’t be caught dead doing something so ridiculous.

Roman checks his watch. Twelve minutes to midnight.

The stairwell door swings open. He turns to snap at the intruder, but an insult dies on his lips as he’s greeted by Stewy’s warm expression.

“Thought I might find you up here,” Stewy says carefully, tone measured. “You cold?”

Roman shakes his head, but his teeth are chattering. Stewy looks perfectly content, his black peacoat buttoned up to his collar, his blue tie peeking out underneath. His hands are in his pockets.

“Not having fun downstairs?” Roman asks, and his tone would be chilly if he wasn’t shivering so damn much. He tries to disguise it by taking another sip of his drink. His hand shakes as he brings the glass to his lips.

“Not particularly.” Stewy takes a few steps towards him before stopping and gazing over the edge of the rooftop. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket, a lighter out of the other, sticks a cigarette between his teeth, and carefully cups his hand around the flame while he lights it. He holds the pack out to Roman. Roman shakes his head. Stewy returns the cigarettes and lighter to his pockets and takes a drag. The cigarette dangles between his fingers as he blows the smoke into the air; he looks almost like a painting, like one of those smudged renditions of a 1940s America, of two friends sharing a smoke on a windowsill.

He can distantly hear music, but he can’t pick out what it is. He didn’t bother to check who would be performing tonight; he doesn't particularly care. He can’t remember the last time he watched the New Year’s party on TV. It must have been when he was young—before military school, because he wouldn’t have been caught dead watching it after that. His memories from before those years are fuzzy, but he thinks he remembers pictures on the TV in their old living room, a drunk nanny splayed out on the couch, Shiv and Kendall arguing loudly. And, for some odd reason, Stewy. 

Roman tilts his head and glances at Stewy. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, he supposes, for Stewy to have spent a New Year’s or two with them. Logan hadn’t given a shit about what they got up to, so Kendall and Stewy would have had access to all of the alcohol their teenage bodies could stomach. He doesn’t know, though, why they’d choose to stick around Kendall’s siblings when they could have been off doing anything else.

Part of him wants to ask Stewy if he remembers it. The other part of him, the rational part, tells him not to. If it wasn’t real, if Roman’s brain is just filling in gaps, he doesn’t need Stewy to know that his teenage self makes consistent appearances in Roman’s memories. If it was real, then Stewy might think Roman is bringing it up for nostalgic purposes, and Roman would rather throw himself off of the roof than have Stewy think that he’s feeling nostalgic about his childhood.

Roman is shivering, worse now than when he first walked out, even though his body should have adjusted to the cold. Stewy holds his cigarette between his teeth and undoes the top button of his coat. Roman eyes him up and down, then tells him clearly, “If you’re about to give me your coat, I will throw up.” 

Stewy quirks an eyebrow, his movements stilled. There’s a beat of silence. Roman juts his chin out. His cheeks are flushed because of the cold or because of Stewy, he can’t tell which, and he doesn’t care to figure it out.

Finally, Stewy backs down with a shrug. He redoes the button and takes the cigarette back out of his mouth. His hand rests between them on the railing. Ash falls off the end of the cigarette and twirls away in the wind; Roman thinks it’ll probably make it all the way to Jersey before it stops. 

The quiet between them is heavy, but not uncomfortable. Roman had come up here to be alone, but he’s finding that Stewy’s presence doesn’t bother him as much as it should. He glances at his watch, then refills his glass from the bottle perched on the railing and holds it between his fingers to wait for midnight. He briefly wonders what Kendall is up to downstairs, whether he and Gerri and Frank are exchanging conspiratorial glances over half-empty champagne glasses. He briefly wonders if Logan suspects a thing. 

Stewy stubs out his cigarette, tosses it to the ground, crushes it under the hell of his shoe. Roman stares at the black smudge it leaves on the concrete. 

“May I?” Stewy asks, and it takes a moment for Roman to realize he’s gesturing at the champagne bottle. 

“Knock yourself out.”

Stewy picks it up and takes a drink. It’s obscene, really, the way his lips rest on the lip of the bottle, the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows, and Roman is thinking that Stewy might as well be deepthroating the damn thing when Stewy lowers the bottle and glances at Roman with a half-surprised, half-knowing look. Roman mutters a curse under his breath and drags his eyes away.

“You’ve never been much of a New Year’s person, have you?” Stewy asks, and it feels accusatory despite his casual tone. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You just never seem to enjoy yourself, dude. That’s all.”

Roman shrugs. He’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to say. Even if he was sure, he doesn’t know if he would want to say it to Stewy.

“You don’t need to look so miserable, Rome,” Stewy tells him with a light whack to Roman’s shoulder. “It’s just me.”

“Have you considered that maybe the reason I look so miserable is _because_ of you?” Roman counters, and Stewy smiles for the first time all night, and then so does Roman. “Give me that bottle back, asshole.” 

“You have your own glass.”

“I’m saving it.” 

“This is mine now.” 

“Who paid for it?” 

“The company, I presume—” There’s a spark in his eye— “with the money I bailed you out with.” 

“Fuck you.”

Stewy winks, then takes another sip of champagne, and Roman is careful not to look at him this time. 

Roman checks his watch again. The hands are ticking closer and closer to midnight, and part of him—a very large part—wants to leave before the countdown begins. He wants to be home, back in his own bed, in his quiet, empty apartment. He wants to fall asleep before the clocks strike midnight; he wants to be unaware of the passage of time. 

It’s too much to ask for, but it’s a nice fantasy all the same.

“Don’t you have someone downstairs you should be getting back to?” Roman asks, attempting to keep his voice casual. 

“Hm? Oh, my girlfriend?” 

It stings, for some reason. Roman brushes it off. 

“Nah,” Stewy says. “It’s not exactly like that.” 

Roman knows better than to ask questions. He’s known Stewy long enough, has been adjacent to Stewy’s scene for long enough, to know not to pry. Whatever arrangement Stewy and his girlfriend (“girlfriend”?) have, it’s not for Roman to understand. For his own sake, he should stay as far away from the topic of Stewy’s sex life as possible.

There’s a quiet rumble from the direction of Times Square, and Roman realizes that the countdown has begun, that his watch must be a few seconds slow because it says it’s not quite 11:59 yet; he figures that whoever is in charge of the ball drop can tell time more accurately than he can. 

When he looks back up, Stewy is staring at him, and he doesn’t look away. Roman’s cheeks flush as if he was the one caught staring. 

Stewy clears his throat and lifts his champagne bottle. “May I propose a toast?”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Have at it, freak.” 

A smile tugs at the corner of Stewy’s lips. “To money.”

Roman barks out a laugh at that. Stewy looks pleased with himself.

“To money,” Stewy repeats, “and to corporate manslaughter, and to a Waystar run by guys who aren’t a shit away from death, and to you making me a billionaire by my next birthday.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Roman says, but there’s a hint of admiration, of what might be fondness, underneath it. 

“Your turn.” 

“To money,” he copies, “and to a more entertaining shitshow to come.”

They raise the toast, Roman’s glass clinking against the neck of the bottle, and both drink as the city erupts into fireworks. 

Roman can’t fight the smile that pulls at his lips, and he finds himself grinning at Stewy, but Stewy is grinning right back, so it doesn’t feel nearly as ridiculous as it should.

Stewy leans in, and Roman’s brain suddenly switches into fight-or-flight mode before he realizes that Stewy’s lips aren’t aiming for his, and a second later, Stewy has wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders. He fights the urge to shove Stewy away and instead lets the warmth envelop him, grateful for the brief reprieve from the cold.

“Happy New Year, Rome,” Stewy says quietly, the words quickly snatched away by the freezing wind, but not before they reach Roman’s ears.

“Happy New Year,” he replies, voice small against Stewy’s shoulder, whispering into the fabric of his coat, embarrassed, but not enough to pull away. 

Stewy steps back.

“I’ll see you,” Stewy tells him.

Roman watches him walk away, his eyes not leaving Stewy’s back until the door slams shut behind him, and the wind whips at his cheeks again, but he can’t feel it anymore, Stewy’s warmth clinging to his shirt and his neck and his hands. Roman lifts his free hand and gently touches his lips, and he thinks for a second that he wouldn’t have minded if Stewy had tried. 

He doesn’t want to think about what that means. 

He finishes off his glass of champagne, drags his shoe over the stubbed-out cigarette, and follows Stewy’s warmth back into the building.

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't posted any fics since august, but i was missing my boys. i started this ages ago and never got around to finishing it, so i figured new year's was as good a time as any to wrap it up. there might be a part two to this eventually that offers a little more than just a new year's hug (wink wink). as always, leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed and hmu on tumblr @vaguelyprophetic


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